The Rom-Commers(91)

How humiliating.

But my second, more forceful thought was: Wait a minute. Who cares?

“Hey,” Charlie said then, with a little wave like he was striking up a conversation.

We were not striking up a conversation. “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

He looked at me like there were a hundred things he desperately wanted to say—but he couldn’t say any of them. He hadn’t shaved. His hair was mussed at its maximum level. He was also—I now realized—still wearing his same sweats from the last time we saw each other.

It was a basic question, but he couldn’t answer.

It’s kind of excruciating to watch words fail a writer.

But I let it play out.

Finally, Charlie bent down to unzip the backpack by his feet. He rifled through it, pulling out my strawberry hoodie. Then he stood and stepped closer.

“You forgot this,” he said, handing it to me.

Why was the sight of that red, fuzzy old friend so comforting? I took it, of course. But I said, “You came here to bring me my lucky hoodie?”

“I thought you might want it.”

He thought I might want it? So he flew halfway across the country? Wasn’t that why they invented FedEx?

“Why are you really here, Charlie?” I asked.

“When I woke up and found the house empty, I thought you’d left. Left left—for real. But then I heard from Logan about your dad.”

“I meant to text you,” I said—trying to stay explanatory instead of apologetic—“but things have been really crazy.”

“Of course—of course,” Charlie said. “I get it. I was just worried about you.”

“You were worried about me, so you flew to Texas?”

Charlie nodded, like Yeah. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

Of course not. “I was at the hospital.”

“How is your dad?”

“He’s fine,” I said. Depending on how you defined fine. But that was my story, and I was sticking to it. “He’s fine, I’m fine, everybody’s fine,” I said. Then: “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“I just wanted to—check in.”

“Ah,” I said, in a tone like flying halfway across the country to check in like this was patently bananas. “Well, then. Mission accomplished.”

“More than that,” Charlie corrected. “I wanted to comfort you.”

“Comfort me?”

Charlie nodded.

“You can’t.”

Charlie frowned. “I can’t? That’s it?”

I shrugged. “That’s it.”

“But you’re having a tough time,” Charlie said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“I can’t just let you go through all this alone.”

“Sure you can.”

“But,” Charlie said, “I don’t want to.”

“Look,” I said, too tired to help him work through his thoughts on this—but somehow forced to do it, anyway. “I said I liked you, and you said no. I blatantly propositioned you, and you said no. At every chance, you’ve made it clear that you want to remain work colleagues at best with me. That’s fine. I’m not fighting you. But work colleagues work together. They aren’t friends, and they aren’t confidants—and they sure as hell don’t fly across the country to bring each other sweatshirts. We’re not in a relationship where we fly anywhere for each other. And we’re not in a relationship like that”—I paused for effect—“because that’s the way you wanted it.”

“But that was before your dad got sick.”

“Why does that change things?”

“I don’t want to not be there for you.”

“That’s a heck of a double negative.”

“I hate the thought that you’re suffering.”

“People suffer all the time, Charlie.”

“But it’s you,” he said, like I was something special.

“Sure. Fine. It’s me.”

“There has to be something I can do.”

“Yes,” I said. “You can leave.”

But Charlie shook his head at that. “I can’t. I don’t think I can.”

I met his eyes. “You have to.”

“But don’t you—need someone right now?”

“Of course! Obviously! Anyone—and everyone! Just not you.”

Charlie frowned, like that made no sense. “Why isn’t someone better than no one?”

I sighed. Did I really have to explain this, too?

Apparently so.

“I really liked you,” I said. “And you hard-core rejected me. So seeing you doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse.”

I watched the understanding overtake him.

“There’s nothing I can do for you.” Charlie said, trying on that idea for size.

“Nothing,” I confirmed.

“Nothing,” Charlie agreed. “Not even”—and here he cringed a little, anticipating my answer—“a hug?”

I gave him a look. “To quote a famous writer we both know: ‘Absolutely not. No way in hell.’”